Read Online The Wildside Book of Fantasy: 20 Great Tales of Fantasy by Fritz Leiber, Gene Wolfe, Robert E. Howard, Paul di Filippo, Lin Carter, Tanith Lee, Clark Ashton Smith, E. Hoffmann Price, Thomas Burnett Swann, Brian Stableford, John Gregory Betancourt, Brian McNaughton, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Clive Jackson, Darrell Schwetizer, Achmed Abdullah - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fritz Leiber, Gene Wolfe, Robert E. Howard, Paul di Filippo, Lin Carter, Tanith Lee, Clark Ashton Smith, E. Hoffmann Price, Thomas Burnett Swann, Brian Stableford, John Gregory Betancourt, Brian McNaughton, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Lawrence Watt-Evans, Clive Jackson, Darrell Schwetizer, Achmed Abdullah
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talons. Pausing to scatter the sunbirds with a few well-aimed rocks, we set off through the forest. Out of the air, the Harpy was slow and clumsy; her vicious power was reduced to a duck-like waddle.
She lost no chance to brush against our bodies. Her grin revealed yellow, rotted teeth. “My name is Podarge,” she whistled. She spoke the name with emphasis, as if she were saying ‘Helen’ or ‘Aphrodite.’ “If you let me go, I will tell my sisters you come as guests. We will give you our favors and send you on your way—your friend as well.”
“Favors?” whispered Balder. “Vhat does she mean?”
“Er, kisses,” I replied, as discreetly as possible.
Balder jerked on her rope. “The favor ve vant is to find my bruder unharmed.”
She walked quietly between us the rest of the way.
The nest of the Harpies, obviously patterned after those of the sunbirds, was a large, flat-topped oval, about the size of a cowshed, suspended from a branch by a thick, knotted cord. The walls were built of twigs and cemented with clay, and the roof which projected above the entrance was woven of rushes. It was not a graceful house. Where the nests of the sunbirds enjoyed the charm of smallness, this outsize counterpart bristled with twigs and bulged with excessive clay. Clumsy hands, it was obvious—or feet, I should say—had done the building. They had not neglected, however, to strip the supporting tree of all its branches except the one which held the nest. Without wings, it would not be easy to reach the nest, seventy feet or more above our heads.
“Call your friends,” I said.
Podarge gave a sharp, sustained whistle, bird-like, and yet with the high keening of a she-wolf. The nest swayed, the single limb groaned in its wooden socket. Two Harpies appeared in the entranceway.
“Return my bruder,” cried Balder. “If you don’t ve vill kill your friend.”
Podarge strained toward her sisters. Her bloodshot eyes widened in supplication. “Listen to them,” she shrilled. “They mean to kill me!”
“Kill her,” screamed the first. “The nest is too small for her now.”
“Kill her,” echoed the sister. Her look was anticipatory.
Podarge’s wings strained at their fetters. Her talons quivered as if they were rending flesh. Her face—well, it was the face of an old, evil woman who has collected crimes as some women collect intaglios and others, bronzes; a woman who, for once, had become the victim instead of the victimizer. She bared the stumps which served her for teeth. Like tree roots torn from a brackish pond, they oozed a yellow liquid.
“You don’t even have him,” cried Balder, running to the foot of the tree and shaking his dagger at the Harpies. Anger became him. I thought of the god for whom he was named, Balder, the Sun, stalwart and beautiful. He was still a boy, but his rage was titanic and timeless. “If you’ve killed him, I vill burn your tree!”
The Harpies vanished and reappeared with Frey between them. Bruised and semiconscious, he had to lean on their wings to support himself. He stared down dazedly and saw his brother. Recognition, like the sudden flaring of a lamp, lit his face. He held out his hand with infinite trustfulness, as if he expected his brother to reach across air and draw him to safety.
A Harpy spoke. “Burn us, burn your brother. Why not join him instead?”
“If you set him free, you can take me in his place.”
They seemed to deliberate, to view his beauty and measure him against his brother.
“I am taller,” he said. “Stronger. My arms are like hammered bronze.”
A Harpy screamed in triumph. “Pretty boy! Why should we not have both? Throw down your dagger and wait at the foot of the tree. Otherwise, we will cast your brother to the ground.”
Balder looked at me with anguished indecision. “What must I do?” he seemed to ask.
The sly phoenix. The forest of watchful birds. The yellow-haired boy beside the mammoth tree. The black abortions
She lost no chance to brush against our bodies. Her grin revealed yellow, rotted teeth. “My name is Podarge,” she whistled. She spoke the name with emphasis, as if she were saying ‘Helen’ or ‘Aphrodite.’ “If you let me go, I will tell my sisters you come as guests. We will give you our favors and send you on your way—your friend as well.”
“Favors?” whispered Balder. “Vhat does she mean?”
“Er, kisses,” I replied, as discreetly as possible.
Balder jerked on her rope. “The favor ve vant is to find my bruder unharmed.”
She walked quietly between us the rest of the way.
The nest of the Harpies, obviously patterned after those of the sunbirds, was a large, flat-topped oval, about the size of a cowshed, suspended from a branch by a thick, knotted cord. The walls were built of twigs and cemented with clay, and the roof which projected above the entrance was woven of rushes. It was not a graceful house. Where the nests of the sunbirds enjoyed the charm of smallness, this outsize counterpart bristled with twigs and bulged with excessive clay. Clumsy hands, it was obvious—or feet, I should say—had done the building. They had not neglected, however, to strip the supporting tree of all its branches except the one which held the nest. Without wings, it would not be easy to reach the nest, seventy feet or more above our heads.
“Call your friends,” I said.
Podarge gave a sharp, sustained whistle, bird-like, and yet with the high keening of a she-wolf. The nest swayed, the single limb groaned in its wooden socket. Two Harpies appeared in the entranceway.
“Return my bruder,” cried Balder. “If you don’t ve vill kill your friend.”
Podarge strained toward her sisters. Her bloodshot eyes widened in supplication. “Listen to them,” she shrilled. “They mean to kill me!”
“Kill her,” screamed the first. “The nest is too small for her now.”
“Kill her,” echoed the sister. Her look was anticipatory.
Podarge’s wings strained at their fetters. Her talons quivered as if they were rending flesh. Her face—well, it was the face of an old, evil woman who has collected crimes as some women collect intaglios and others, bronzes; a woman who, for once, had become the victim instead of the victimizer. She bared the stumps which served her for teeth. Like tree roots torn from a brackish pond, they oozed a yellow liquid.
“You don’t even have him,” cried Balder, running to the foot of the tree and shaking his dagger at the Harpies. Anger became him. I thought of the god for whom he was named, Balder, the Sun, stalwart and beautiful. He was still a boy, but his rage was titanic and timeless. “If you’ve killed him, I vill burn your tree!”
The Harpies vanished and reappeared with Frey between them. Bruised and semiconscious, he had to lean on their wings to support himself. He stared down dazedly and saw his brother. Recognition, like the sudden flaring of a lamp, lit his face. He held out his hand with infinite trustfulness, as if he expected his brother to reach across air and draw him to safety.
A Harpy spoke. “Burn us, burn your brother. Why not join him instead?”
“If you set him free, you can take me in his place.”
They seemed to deliberate, to view his beauty and measure him against his brother.
“I am taller,” he said. “Stronger. My arms are like hammered bronze.”
A Harpy screamed in triumph. “Pretty boy! Why should we not have both? Throw down your dagger and wait at the foot of the tree. Otherwise, we will cast your brother to the ground.”
Balder looked at me with anguished indecision. “What must I do?” he seemed to ask.
The sly phoenix. The forest of watchful birds. The yellow-haired boy beside the mammoth tree. The black abortions
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